


took my mind

by regulsh



Category: Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-09-06 03:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/pseuds/regulsh
Summary: He used to pride himself on his ability to read people.  He doesn’t know what to do but to try.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is barely anything, but i had to put it somewhere!

The thing is—

Richard’s so sweet, so attentive and keen to support him, and he doesn’t even quite know that it’s that at the time—

And, then. Sometimes.

He wants to please, to amp up the shimmering tenor of their new connection, for himself, for him, for other people. He throws a quip or a meant compliment to his side, looks to see—

and sometimes he gets a soft smile and a hand inconspicuous, warm on his back

and sometimes he gets flashed a sharp grin like a blade and empty, flat eyes. Almost... _bored_, and put-upon. Too-aware. Eyes that read, _Hm, yes, well. Is that all? _

He jitters around set endlessly, every day. One afternoon he plunks down next to Richard, who does not look at him as he reaches over and clamps over his wrist, encircling it, warm fingers unbearably tight and unmoving against bone as he carries on his conversation with the PA as light as anything

He used to pride himself on his ability to read people. He doesn’t know what to do but to try.

And he makes up for it during the scenes, boils over and pushes and prods and lashes and weeps, and even then he remains an even keel against which he can mark his own desperation

that’s the job

They bid their daily farewells, one last clasp and turning to go, but he can feel his eyes pinned to his back

and he twitches and turns and his implacability is a tractor beam

And he makes up for it after the scenes, goes at him starved and frantic for a cue. Feels his hands solid on his sides, his mouth an ocean to swim in, and is alarmed at the alien spike of irritation that rises in him suddenly.

He tries to play it cool, attempts to withdraw with a mumble for a glass of water, turns to wander and stare at a corner in the trailer, then

can’t feel anything, as his hands are pinned and his body is pressed against a wall, no more space, _full of_—

his head in his neck, drawing him backwards to the thin cot, no choice but to flatten face first into the mattress. He feels latched into place, his fucking meridians or some shit aligned with the weight of Richard on top of him, groaning.

He wriggles to flip around, raises up and throws his arms around him and pushes his face into his

until Richard squeezes the back of his neck and says _open your mouth_ and his voice is low and cool and even and he is smiling as kindly, as affectionately as always.

And. Well.

They roll over and he squirms down, down and thoroughly blows him, sucks deep and runs his hands up his ribs and under his shoulder blades. Richard writhes, clutching and shouting, and he feels calmer than he has in weeks. 

He keeps his mouth on him, longer than he knows he should

he swats and pushes him weakly

and he goes back, breathing and mouthing in equal measure

and he pushes him weakly again

and he goes back again and sinks his mouth around the head and lathes it mercilessly

and he jerks, fiercely, legs and knees jolting involuntarily and knocks him in the head for certain, catches his side with his feet, and he just pops back up

grinning


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here, have some accompanying richard pov, turns out I had more to say

There is a massive, sprawling yard and almost a hundred people between them. Flat yellow sun, baking off the concrete. Splayed umbrellas. Glittering smiles, heads tossing and turning and preening.

At a distance, he glances over to where he strides intently, working through the mechanics of the shot. Sees him occasionally pulled aside by Dexter who talks to him urgently, gripping his shoulder, looking like the world’s oddest ball player being coached before stepping to bat.

They lock eyes for just a moment

the briefest glance, across all that way, through all those bodies and faces, eyes onto his and then sliding away

and he feels it run down his spine like a touch. His eyes are unfocused, absolutely a million miles away in the scene but it still, so acutely, makes him _feel_—

He makes himself turn away.

Another day, in between setups, he notices him hunched in a chair in the corner, rubbing where his shoulder meets his neck. He busies himself, tries to focus on anything else but the man who’s taking a moment to be alone, but his gaze draws to him again only minutes later and he sees him rubbing again, grimacing, and can't. Can’t help himself.

Says a kind but final _thank you_ to the PA he was chatting to, who slouches off. He slides into the seat next to Taron, who beams at his arrival.

He gives no warning as he burrows his thumb into the sore muscle of his shoulder and he jumps sharply, seethes _you fff_— before realizing this isn’t a stupid scare tactic. He isn't moving. Calmly works in deep, pressing and shifting by degrees around the thick swell of his shoulder. Gentle, but persistent and unyielding.

He squirms, hitting some sort of wall, tries for a moment to evade his kneading hand

_No_, he says

quick and low

and Taron stops. Exhales, settles again in his chair.

The crew moves around them as they sit. He keeps his thumb moving, firm, the rest of his fingers splayed out soothingly.

Seconds pass

(forever, time stilled)

while he is quiet, eyelids down, lashes low against his cheek. Silence, stifled breath. He feels the bunched muscle soften under the pad of his thumb, sees his mouth slacken and his shoulder fall, senses an involuntary shiver run through him

until Taron's called over

and he jumps out of his chair, quick to hop to, his hand falling through the empty space he leaves behind.

And it’s like that most days, clusters of scenes and moments in between where they are together, and then long stretches where he just watches and waits. _Taron has to keep a wide perspective for the film_, he keeps telling himself, _he has to juggle timelines and motivations and several relationships across decades_

But the desire to— do _something_ to make— still rises in him—

But he wrestles the impulse into submission, stuffs it down to the base of his stomach. Keeps a tight grip on it.

And some days his grip is tighter than others.

Extras scutter around as he’s standing talking to Dexter, again, but he’s casual and settled today and his eyes are real and his skin is the same, his _skin_—

He doesn’t wear enough goddamn clothes in this movie. He himself wears too many, shirt starch and gabardine, suited and booted and shellacked in layers until he feels like a sour little bug in a shell. But Taron manages to break free, always fizzy and bright, always bursting forth from whatever ridiculous costume they put him in each day.

But not quite now, he can tell. His hands are on his hips. Grumpy.

He trots over to them and slips his hand in the bend of his arm, loops it casually through his elbow, fingertips idle on his forearm and listens intently to Dex’s chatter. Ignores the live wire he’s ignited next to him.

He does realize, after a time.

Sitting alone in his hotel room one night and hating it, brain ticking for want of something but his stomach souring at the thought of a cig, realizes that

he’s developed a

hm. Fixation.

They meet the next day on set, a long scene, just the two of them, and he sips from his wellspring with such obvious relief he feels like his high is being managed by everyone else on set. Tunnel vision and blasted pupils, he must have.

_ohoh was that it d’you think_ Taron asks after a take, snapping a grin immediately after cut. He feels something _burst_ against his sternum and makes himself wait two long beats before replying _mm, could be, if we’re lucky_

and it’s worth it

He leans back against the headboard where he’s sitting, sweeps his hand long down his side as Taron stands a million miles away at the edge of the bed, boxers only, bereft.

He’s totally naked, became so as soon as they had each had a nip of vodka from the minibar for something to do, and he had wound his hand into the hair at the crown of his head and sucked against his neck, felt him loop his arms around his midsection and sag like a puppet with its strings cut

Taron yanks off his boxers and stands defiantly, eyes unable to move from where he’s now stroking his cock, thrilling with it.

_Go on_, he barely whispers, and he lets slip a moan.

Taron brings a hand to himself, twitches his fingertips around his head, clocks him waiting and watching and takes his goddamn time, strokes himself, the bastard

He thunks his head back to rest against the headboard, hand moving lush but slow, content to stretch the moment and his low-stirring pleasure out, devour him with his eyes, except—

Taron has other plans, moves with a start and clambers up onto the bed to kneel over him, eyes dark and focused, and his breath punches out of him. He can’t deal with this, his body, his breath so close so suddenly. He remembers, of all things, a pigeon he had stopped to photograph on the streets of London once, oily rainbow-sheen feathers, that turned its bobbing head and flew at his lens, making him yelp and drop his phone

Recalibrating his vision, shifting his posture, it all feels like it takes a huge manual effort to adjust to Taron in his lap. He tries to not let on, runs a hand across his thigh, up over his torso, digs into the muscle of his shoulder, making him hiss

His eyes are closed now, working himself furiously, rocking down against him. He lets his gaze travel shamelessly over his broad chest, his thick forearm stroking

_Thought about it_, he admits with a laugh, eyes flicking open to meet his. Caught out. _Imagined this. Just wanted you — there_, Taron groans, and he lets the words and images ring through him like a struck bell, clear, unbelieving

Not even touching himself now, not even touching him now, hands twitching helplessly on the duvet

_Can I—_ Taron gasps, red and willing

_Anything. Anything you want _

tumbles out before he can stop himself, and before Taron can stop himself he’s groaning and shooting over his fingers, stuttering and splashing up his chest

His back bows over him, panting. He runs his hand up his disgusting chest, pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had zero plans for a chapter two but this little dynamic wouldn’t leave me alone, and so here we are, done +
> 
> this was an exercise in a couple different things -- hope you enjoyed!


End file.
